


fight them softly

by imhispatsy (Djetelina)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, potentially other pairings, will does not call jack!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djetelina/pseuds/imhispatsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Will does not call Jack (instead he takes in one more stray).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. soon they will be here to take me away from my home

**Author's Note:**

> title and chapter name taken from 'fight them softly' by soley.

i. For a few stairs the only sound that he could hear was the quiet but persistent beeping; if it weren’t for his medical experience he could have mistaken it for a sound of an electronic watch. Frederick Chilton did not have an electronic watch in his house and certainly not in his guest room (guest room only in the name, not in the use).

With his body loudly complaining about stairs and aggravated walking, his old wounds still active participants of his daily life, he could not help but wonder what was the reason for the nervous tension in his gut. There was nothing that indicated any danger or threat (apart from the ever-present taste of meat in his mouth)

And yet he pushed forward with a heavy heart, never looking back, never looking over his shoulder, terrified of what (who) he might see there 

( _the faceless monster hidden under a false pretense of good manners and carefully set table_ )

 

ii. He had longed to see Abel Gideon, his tormentor (his victim) and a murderer (a patient), dead, but not in those circumstances (usually he was the one that killed him, proving himself brave and resilient). Here, in the white and distinctly cold room, Abel Gideon provoked a dichotomous emotional response – pity. He instinctually recoiled from ( _blood wound “I’m going to leave him a bucket” pain pain pain_ ) the pure shock.

His face slackened with a sudden understanding. Hannibal was not after his meat, but rather innocence and reputation. There was a twisted irony hidden in Chilton’s destination, as his most prized characteristics were to be used as the most incriminating evidence (the years of social isolation and alienating even the closest acquaintances would be pointless defences against a carefully crafted frame).

The beeping stopped (something in his chest fluttered like a dying bird).

 

iii. He was petrified and Hannibal had noticed it, using his fear to agitate him further (after all, psychic driving works best in an emotionally unstable state). He could feel his body temperature despite the artificial touch of a plastic suit ( _just for a second, before all goes dark and even the faint sound of doorbell is smothered by darkness_ ) (the touch of the murderer was surprisingly gentle).

After waking up the iron and musk of blood was heavy in the air. After all, it has been argued that human reluctance to blood and their heightened sensing of its presence is evolutionary motivated, as it increases the rates of survival. Chilton was a very good survivalist (he had learnt during the lonely school years and the time spent in the hostile psychiatrist environment, where the only skills that mattered were the camouflage and pretense. This has become his primary language, his natural defense).

After seeing the tableau in the kitchen Chilton made the only logical and reasonable decision that he could in that situation – he fled (his wounds seemed to die along with their maker).

( _psychic driving is also most successful if the receiver is unaware_ )

 

iv. Packing in a desperate hurry, while necessary, did nothing to improve his situation (it did stop him from screaming in terror, though). Sitting numb behind the wheel also did not fixed the fact that according to all available evidence (so generously provided on a platter), Frederick Chilton was now considered to be the Chesapeake Ripper. Despite the morbid circumstances, he could not help but wonder a little at Hannibal’s dedication and precision (wondering about Hannibal only caused something in his gut to hurt).  

Oddly enough, driving aimlessly did sooth his nerves, giving him a chance to pretend and compartmentalize ( _oh, that skill he did possess_ ). He stared straight ahead on the road before him, disconnected from his old self and from surrounding places, quickly disappearing behind the expensive car windows (he carefully avoided his eyes in the mirror). The sounds from the outside were coming to him with breathlessness, as if the distance between him and the rest of the world had increased tenfold when he lost his safety (as if he was still safe).

Finally looking in the mirror, he did not recognize the person that looked right back at him (the trembling creature made of fear and glass). His thoughts turned briefly to another person who had seemingly undergone a metamorphosis – Will Graham left his hospital a different man than he went in. The survivalist in him suddenly knew where to go

( _the lighting does not strike the same place twice_ )

 

v. Hearing the muffled barking, Chilton thought of his soaked clothes and the seemingly permanent stench of dried blood ( _how easily it would be for trained dog to find him_ ). The thought flickered and died within a second, as he got surrounded by a pack of dogs. His old self would have been disgusted, nervously twitching by now, trying to avoid any contact with the hairy and potentially dirty animals or judging Will’s taste and analyzing the potential psychological aspect of his pet keeping habits (are all of the dogs his? why dogs?). Now, the only response that was deemed possible was a sudden understanding of that particular feature of the other man ( _dogs are loyal, dogs protect their pack, dogs can accept humans even when other humans are unable to do so_ ). His body relaxed and lost its apparent tautness.

In the calm eyes of the emerging Will Graham he saw a similar understanding (no, pity shame disgust), as though sharing the peculiar experience of interacting with real persona of Hannibal Lecter made them equals. He began to consider the possibility that Will Graham was the bravest man he ever knew

(so much braver than he would ever be)


	2. I will use my garden army to hide you all from them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the first days after the frame, Chilton's entire world zoomed in to a small house in Wolf Trap.

i. There were few conversation topics available in such unusual situation. The most obvious one was ruled right away without any conscious effort, as even the faintest sounds from the outside caused a certain nervous twitch of Chilton’s hands (they searched for a false comfort of his cane, grasping for any remains of his old position). Chilton stared mindlessly at a fixed point outside the window, trying not to reveal his quietly sizzling anxiety set deep down in his gut and slowly burning further, until there was nothing left but his ashen bones and destroyed reputation and a clichéd footnote in Evil Minds Research Museum.

Sitting at the table in Will’s desolated kitchen only made him think briefly of how the tables had turned on them – the dynamics of their relations changed and now it was Will who had the utter control over the other man’s life (as terrifying this thought was, it also brought a strange sense of comfort. It wasn’t his responsibility now). The irony was not lost on him and his self-deprecating laughter finally caused Will to focus on him instead of the tea he was preparing ( _mild, tasteless, hopeless_ ).

“What will you do with me?” Chilton asked hesitantly (fearing all those unlimited possibilities of the response, just waiting to happen, all stuck in the mind).

Graham’s only answer was passing a mug of hot tea (an old, chipped one) with an enigmatic smile, but it was enough. He smiled and took a sip of the insipid tea, smelling the chamomile tea ( _a newly acquired life_ ).

(the frantic need to run run run was slowly quenched)

 

ii. On the first day of his voluntary captivity in Wolf Trap, Chilton found himself nesting in the borrowed room (a small and dusty place upstairs, with only one window and an old bed that creaked every time he looked at it). While his limited parcels did not leave much to unpack, the main purpose of the activity was not strictly about physical occupying the space, but rather making it his (safe comfortable acceptable). This struggle for a sense of normality was rather sad (but at least there was a struggle, at least he did not give up, at least he had not lost) ( _yet_ ).

He discovered a long lost pen with dark blue ink that he bought during his university years (it was supposed to be impressive, considering the price tag and the brand) buried in his duffel bag, hidden under layers of useless shirts and an errant tie. It was a nice, metallic tool and he used it mostly to write notes on progress in Abel Gideon’s therapy (and the undiscovered potential to become his breakthrough, to finally mean something in the psychiatric society, to become something). Feeling his veins constricting, he threw it on the bed and hobbled heavily to the wall, feeling the need to grasp something stable, tangible, real. ( _The ink had dried in the middle of the cartridge_ ).

Several days later, he knew the ceiling in Will’s guest room by heart, as all those little cracks and faint splatters were his only companions during long, lonely nights, when the hunting hounds seemed to be circling the house and all he could hear was a muffled sound of rhythmic breathing, emanating from behind the plastic

( _nighttime is very educational, you see_ )

 

iii. The little room upstairs was especially cold on the day when Jack Crawford came to Wolf Trap. While his intent may have officially involved only careful concern about Graham’s safety, his eyes clung to the smallest elements of the landscape, searching for any clues or signs ( _once burned, any organism will always look out for a spark_ ).

Chilton stood in the solitary, tiny window and observed carefully the minutiae of the agent’s behaviour, looked at the progressive melting of glaciers in Jack’s behavior as he was slowly convinced by Graham that no, there is no psychopathic serial killer here, why would he even think so, did he remember how Chilton treated him in the hospital, that bastard can die in hell if you ask him (or did he watch the transfer of thirty pieces of silver into the hands of Graham)

A small cough interrupted this particular conspiracy theory and Chilton shuffled his bare feet on the unkind splintered floor, amazed by Graham’s resilience. Now the spectacle had changed and he watched the undergoing invasion of Graham’s personal space (the distance between two men was getting smaller with every minute Crawford spent trying to get into Graham’s mind, mapping out his skull with a ill-conceived phrenology fascination hidden under a false solicitude).

When the agent had seemingly collected all the available breadcrumbs, Chilton’s breathing slowly returned to its normal pace and his body relaxed against the battered window frame. It could have been worse.

(It was worse. Crawford took his time to perform a last scan of his surroundings, his eyes lingering just a fraction of a second longer on that lone window)

( _“Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you”_ )

 

iv. Wolf Trap operated according to several different schemas that had soon become half-familiar to its newly established occupant. The dogs seemingly run the place, as the whole schedule of the residence was based on their primal instinct to run out and mark everything as their own (a similar procedure could be found among humans, only the methods changed). As the true rulers of the place, animals moved as they wished, ignoring the rules of good manners and plain sense of shame. For a man so unaccustomed to the constant presence of any living creature in his home space, Chilton fared pretty well (of course, taking into account the gruesome circumstances).

In the mornings he could not help but smile fecklessly when one of the dogs had mysteriously found their way into his secluded room, ruining his aimless but carefully planned lying in bed. When he discovered yet another dog hair on his miraculously saved cardigan for unreasonably a lot of money (paradoxically, surrounded by the attributes of cheapness, he felt like an outcast), there was not an ounce of anger or irritation found in his brain.

( _the soft murmur telling him to run was quiet as a dead mouse_ )

Another ritual involved a religious avoidance of the kitchen area and general disdain for cooking, which may have arisen from a shared acquaintance’s carefully prepared dinner parties and excessive care of culinary sensations. In a truly utilitarian fashion, food was considered a means rather than an end itself. Graham did not fill up the silence during the sparsely shared meals, nor did he acknowledge the stealthily performed operations of gathering food, then slow retreat back to Chilton’s room

(it had somewhat become his when he first cried there, longing for his old king-size bed and magenta linen, while lying in the stuffy cotton and hiding his glistening with tears face in the inimical pillow)

 

v. Adaptation is a demanding process that requires a given organism to pay constant attention and being alert of the progressive changes in the environment (interestingly, this attitude does not have to conscious), but in turn it increases one’s chance of survival by providing necessary amount of reactivity to matter in natural selection. Chilton had always considered this basic evolutionary rule a naïve truism but apparently being framed promotes a healthy dose of critical reevaluation. In the first days after being framed, his entire world had zoomed in to a small paracosm in Wolf Trap (a detailed imaginary world seemed to be a good definition for the state in which every bone in his spine, every bone in his body screamed at him to run away and yet his heart managed to convince them otherwise)

( _psychic driving may be unsuccessful if a subject experiences a positive emotional state_ ).

Despite the continuing absence of a signal between his communication channels and previously unknown feeling of gratitude, despite the feverish thirst for debris of his old life, despite the looming sense of trembling danger that struggled to convince him of the impending narrative mess, he felt safe at Wolf Trap.

(quiet companionship of the warm dog bodies were enough)

(one lonely window with a battered frame was enough)

(the chamomile tea was enough)

( _it was enough_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the quote in part iii. from goethe.


	3. trust me to take you home, to clean up that blood all over your paws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the aftermath is harder than anybody could have suspected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'putting the dog to sleep' by the antlers.

i. ( _when you wake up_ )

Chilton whimpered timidly, buried in the warm cotton cocoon of cheap sheats and a momentary lapse of consciousness at the moment between dream and reality, where the man was just nerves and bones. After a moment of the struggle and scuffle with the upcoming waves of bedding, he lied quietly as though in a coffin and looked at the old clock on the wall (far enough to ignore the passing night hours, close enough to provide an interesting evidence of an unstable mind). The enticing voice echoing in his skull (run run run) just a moment before was uncomfortably familiar.

During the studies in psychiatric field, each student is supposed to become familiar with the historical mental disorders, now considered old-fashioned and invalid, to understand that the norms and standards are not set in stone (the purpose of the activity is a long-running joke in the psychiatric society, and yet there are no attempts to change it) ( _a change is harder than adaptation_ ). One of the particularly interesting disorders was the glass delusion, "fear of breaking down into pieces of glass”, especially popular in Europe in the 17th century.

As his dysania dominated his actions in a futile attempt to drown away the nagging voice lurking in the shadowy areas of his amygdale, Chilton swallowed down a memory of shattering into trembling pieces of terror and sweat from the touch of plastic.

( _your only choice will be to run_ )

 

ii. Graham became a twitching point in his peripheral vision (always present physically or mentally). Wearing the man’s clothes probably did not help develop any independent associations, as the smell (cheap cologne, dog hair, engine oil smeared across the forehead, pure musky sweat) surrounded Chilton wherever he went.

As the stimuli were greatly limited in Wolf Trap, his deeply ingrained psychiatric instincts kicked in sometimes (they were usually activated when his hands became stuck in the too-long sleeves or he stumbled without the faithful support of his cane, falling into the remains of his previous life) and he spent time observing the other man. His conclusions varied from the previous ones arising from the hastily conducted interviews in a hostile hospital environment, back in the another life. Instead of a shadowy boogeyman made out of phobias and frantic whispers, Graham became a living person, who had carefully crafted a barricade around him and his little piece of world out of neuroses and handpicked social obstacles (Chilton was now able to appreciate the protective barriers between the lone house and tumultuous external world).

When the duties of the self-elected live bait became too demanding and Graham only flickered through house (always dressed up, always with his guards up), Chilton caught himself on missing the quiet presence of the other man

( _during a refractory period after adaptation, an organism does not change newly learnt behaviour in order to avoid potential cognitive dissonance_ )

 

iii. Leaving the small room upstairs was not that difficult; the house was still a closed area, with a myriad of places to hide himself and his shame (the closet in the corridor, the shadowed place under the stairs, the coarse linen in the bed upstairs). Chilton hobbled around the living room, limped on the cold and slippery tiles in the bathroom, staggered after the dogs in an attempt to retrieve his half-read newspaper (the ancient way of contacting with the outside world became now more precious than ever with the absence of modern electronic devices). After a while, he even grew comfortable enough to open the shutters and open some of the windows at the back, diluting the bilious atmosphere (the windows in the front were still a forbidden area, erased from the sketchy plan of Graham’s house).

Graham noticed his acquired aversion to the outside world (of course he did, that man did not leave anything unnoticed), but did not comment anything. And yet, Chilton soon found himself carefully putting one foot after another on the half-melted snow, moving closer to the pile of dogs in the backyard. Though only Graham’s head could be seen among the sea of technicolour fur, it was enough to provide necessary motivation for moving further away from the house. Will grinned, noticing the hesitance and poorly hidden joy (it grew exponentially after an evening in the garden, covered with one of the smaller dogs and an old quilt). Will’s eyes lingered on his timid smile.

The aversion did not disappear (it was a conscious survival strategy), but at least there was no voluntary imprisonment involved. Progressively the number of hours spent outside the protective walls grew alongside the fragile thread of companionship between the two men, as Chilton found himself wanting open plains and scattered trees in the distance, the vast space over his head and stitched beads of stars over his head (he did not want the omnipresent eyes of the hunting wolf)

Will put his hand on Chilton’s shoulder (the wolf rolled his eyes, slowly retreating back in the shadows).

 

iv. The faint handprint of Will’s touch lingered on Chilton’s skin, pressing itself deeper and deeper underneath (he became hyper-aware of the other man’s spatial coordinates, always subconsciously searching for a repeated contact). Poor psychiatrist-turned-fugitive had gone so long without friendly interpersonal interaction that now his body fixated onto that one person (his mind fixated onto the potential meanings, hidden truths and probable rejections) who exhibited any signs of a positive attitude. Even now, as the two men sat at the table side by side and prepared materials to create traditional fishing lures (“ _if your intolerance of animal proteins did not stop FBI from accusing you of cannibalism, then it should not stop you from helping me fish”_ ), the cells in that particular part of his body screamed for another second of touch, another chance at feeling the warmth of another living person ( _a warm, gentle touch of a chloroform-soaken cloth, static breathing in his ear, shhh Frederick, shhh_ ). 

He slowly came back to himself after a moment of silent darkness, leaning on the nearest available vertical object (Will). When he realized his position, Chilton’s emotional dam broke down even further. He cried and cried and cried, taking hold of Will’s terrible grey sweater and just held on (his hands anchored themselves in the finally found comfort)

(it felt empty)

 

v. Chilton’s eyes moved around in increments and his hands flailed around nervously, as he sat on the edge of the hackneyed armchair (always prepared to run, _your only choice will be to run_ ). In the darkened room the only sound was the hitched breathing and slow, insisting ticking of the clock. The sun has long gone beyond the horizon and Will was still not home (when did Wolf Trap become home, how could it have happened before anybody noticing, why didn’t they notice it)

This developing dependence, while not healthy and generally damaging both his mental stability and social status, was understandable in the circumstances. What eluded Chilton’s understanding was the reason for Will’s absence, as the only meeting he was supposed to attend that night was his resumed therapy (therapy only in the name, as the there was not yet invented another description for this careful dance of two intertwined personas)

The doors slammed open and Graham lumbered inside (the skin around his eyes was tight, his hands were loose and Chilton had never seen another person as closely related by Lecter as he saw right now). Chilton stood up and walked over to the other man, mimicking the approach to one of the dogs that panicked earlier, transmitting his intent to interact with him. After a moment both men sat at the couch, facing the opened windows, looking past the wooden walls and the flatlands outside.

“I’ve almost killed a man today,” Will whispered softly “I wanted him to suffer.”

It scared Chilton how closely they were sitting, how intimate (intimidating) this setting had become in just seconds.

“Would he have deserved it?” ( _how much did he resemble the monster, was he created in his image and likeness_ )

There was no response and Chilton was reminded of the futile attempts to obtain any insights into Graham’s mind during treatment (he suddenly longed to return to those times, as frustrating they might have been)

( _metathesiophobia has been observed only in humans, as it is a threatening inhibition from the evolutionary point of view_ )


	4. when you bring the blankets I cover up my face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaptation often requires sacrifices uncomfortable (but the rewards may be splendid) .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lack of interaction between Will and Chilton is actually intended, as Chilton had just experienced a very traumatic event and was forced to completely abandon his previous life. I thought that it would be fitting for such prideful man to undergo a complete metamorphosis in such circumstances, however this would isolate him socially (i don’t know if that makes sense). in the following chapters there will be more interaction, as the story is developing and the characters can finally feel secure. as for the parentheses, they are a conscious writing strategy, but i will try to keep them understandable.  
> thank you for your kind words, it really means a lot to me to find support in readers. you can find me on tumblr (imhispatsy.tumblr.com).

i. The quiet living room was filled with the steady breathing of the dogs and a slowly brewing tension between two men at the table. Previously there had not been a single word uttered concerning the one and only direct cause of their current domestic situation (let sleeping dogs lie), but now the lion was out in the open, released by the troubling events of the previous night and the longitudinal avoidance of the issue.

“Do you regret what happened last night?” ( _not killing the man, almost killing the man, not killing Hannibal_ ) ( _returning to me_ )

“I wanted to kill that man so badly, I could almost taste the iron of the bullet penetrating his body.” Will said with desultory intonation, as though this were the first honest words in his life, “I saw Hannibal in him, in his actions, in his thoughts.”

“Did you intend this act of violence to be an act of justice or an act of revenge?” Chilton fell furtively into the role of a therapist (charily avoiding the potential echoes of conversations over the bars), wanting the other man to open up a little.

Graham saw right through it, his crooked lips lifting at one corner. “Why could it not be both, dr. Chilton?” He said in a slightly mocking tone, sipping on the chamomile tea.

Considering the number of times Chilton slept with his eyes wide open (afraid of the images underneath the eyelids) and dreamt of slaying the beast, of being the one to save them all, he could not answer this and decided to change the subject to a more pressing one issue (pressing because of the future, of its still not finished nature).

“How can you even consider talking to this… _monster_ , let alone let him into your head?”

“No, he is not a monster, that would justify his actions in some way.” Will grimaced and curled his hands around a hot mug. “His crimes are conscious and, uh, deliberate. No, I’m not meeting him because I want him in my head. As if that worked well last time.”

Will finally met Chilton’s eyes and said in an undertone languidly, as though letting him on a secret worth dying for: “I want to keep his life in my hands. And then I want to crush it.” (this was worth dying for, this was worth everything)

( _“you shall pay life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe”_ )

 

ii. When Chilton returned to his room from the evening ablution, the only thing on his mind was (preferably dreamless, probably haunted) sleep. However, his eyes were immediately drawn to the previously unseen object on the battered bed. A cane was nothing to write home about, of similar length and general shape as his old one, but made of polished white birch wood and imperfectly cut verges. Its mysterious emergence stopped his feet from making another step. The sound of a cleared throat made him turn to Will (the interesting flying sensation in his gut was carefully ignored), standing in the doorway.

“Look, I know it’s not that good like that old fancy one you used to have, but it’s something, right?” he said under his breath. “At least now you won’t have to, uh, you can walk easier.” He looked at Chilton with a closed-mouthed smile (to minimize the threat contained in the closed suggestion of his deficiency) and took the first step into the room.

Chilton was getting better at properly reading Will’s emotional state ( _but was it really his inner world?_ ). An empathy disorder allows for a certain translucency in the barrier between one’s emotions and the surrounding people’s. The tension was tangible in the rippling air between the men and the shrinking physical distance, broadcasting precisely the purpose of Will’s action (the timing was not accidental, as well as the emotional importance of the unsophisticated cane).

“Thank you,” Chilton breathed and noticed with a curious absent mindedness that he could feel the faint smell of Will’s cheap cologne, that he himself was holding his breath to avoid breaching this fragile lapse of prudence. The first touch was a reminiscence of their first physical interaction in the backyard (causing some cognitive complications in the psychiatrist’s mind and numbing the roaring voice of reason) and Chilton rotated into the friendly hand, provoking a more loaded touch of the fingertips on his chest, a sensual slip of glistening lips over his own (open and quivering), a welcomed invasion of the space between his legs by Will’s thigh.

Chilton clothed himself in Will’s touch and carefully supporting hands, brushing his lips in a slow manner on the rough jawline and causing the other man to take a quick, shaky breath (inhaling the steamy smell of pheronomal excitement) and gently take over the kiss. Claiming the other’s mouth, Graham touched the warm neck (his veins generously pumping warm blood to the cheeks and lips), held his hesitant hand (the fingers aching to reach out and bury themselves in the dark curls) and deliberately moved their bodies together, feeling the perfect imperfections of the shape and size of the close physical connection. A low growl from Will broke the carefully woven truce and the men parted.

Chilton glanced at the other man’s flushed face and reddened lips and took one shaky step back away from ( _his hands, your hips, his tight and possessive grip_ ) him, then another one and another until he left the room and the house and his bare feet hit the hostile cold of the snow outside ( _run run run_ )

The possibility of such heightened appetency or the desperate desire terrified him, especially without knowing the potential extravenous variables involved (Will was the only human being he interacted with in the past two weeks. A desperate attachment could be developed in much shorter time). In his anxious state Chilton sat underneath the tree in the backyard and did not return until the morning.

( _adaptation may often require_ _seemingly impossible changes in the relations between particular individuals_ )

 

iii. The tension (released by their careful silence and heated looks, possessive touches and soft kisses) was once again collected and tightly locked in a bottle (the cap held only on an unspecified fear). Both residents of the lone house transmitted their frustration to the animals, heightening the claustrophobic atmosphere, as the dogs grew restless and hungry. Therefore, it was no surprise that when Chilton had heard a knock on the door (the panic grew inside him like particularly ugly mold), his first and only reaction was to stay on top of the shaded staircase and meld with the surroundings ( _the fight-or-flight response is the most basic one shared by all sentient organisms_ ). While Will went over to open the door, Chilton silently created a handy list of all possible scenarios (imprisonment, death, torture, cannibalism, death, Will’s death- no, that was enough), burrowing himself into the wall.

The booming voice of Jack Crawford came to him with a hesitant delay, as though his ears did not want to acknowledge it. After the exchange of socially accepted pleasantries and hollow conversation about the forthcoming winter, the agent moved in for a strike.

“We haven’t find Chilton and we probably won’t find him. And I know the reason for it, Will.” The sound of a clearing throat sounded like an unlocking a gun to open a friendly fire.

“Then your task is already finished, well done. Why, uh, why are you here again?” Will tried to not so subtly tell the other man that his presence is a less than wanted burden, but Crawford had nothing but time and ruthless pertinacity.

“There is only one place that he could have hidden at that we haven’t checked.” Jack moved slowly, saturating each step with importance and threat, circling closer and closer to the staircase. “I am here to make up for this oversight.”

“There is no one here, Jack.” Will finally met agent’s eyes, as though provoking him to deny this blatant lie. “And even if he were here, what would you do? You know as well as I do that Chilton is innocent.”

“Is this why you tempt Hannibal, coax him, seduce him?” Jack’s expression turned dark and ugly. “Is Chilton pressuring you into becoming a live bait for a cannibal?” ( _is there something hidden behind the transparent curtains? what is the nonexistent answer to my unspoken question?)_

(abnegation is a defense mechanism which includes a patient rejecting an uncomfortable truth despite the valid evidence presented)

 

iv. Apparently both Chilton and Graham had unconsciously agreed to initiate an action to avoid each other, which after the initial interpersonal success was not that simple. With the cold sitting low in the air and the snow layer puffing out outside the steamed windows, the shared journeys outside had to be limited and any remaining interaction was cut in half ( _if you divide zero by any given number, the result remains unchanged_ ). In the beginning the two men had been driven closer by their survival instinct; now the same force worked hard to keep them apart, fueled by subconscious insecurities and too shallowly buried old altercations.

Despite the possible inconvenience, Graham insisted on sleeping in the living room, claiming both habitual comfort and a potential defense against unappreciated company (also, the only other available bed was in Chilton’s small room). This may have created an uncomfortable breaches of privacy in the past (the sight of safely sleeping Graham and the accidental glimpse of the bare thighs still run on a loop in Chilton’s hippocampus), but the definite zenith happened on the night following Jack’s surprising visit.

After a particularly trying nightmare featuring a visceral cacophony of plastic hands and carnage trophies, Chilton reluctantly plodded to the bathroom (seeking a silent comfort of the shower tube and judgeless pressure of water), but he never quite reached his destination. The top of his beloved staircase provided a truly magnificent vantage point from which he could see exactly each piece of a room downstairs without revealing his presence and it usually proved itself useful during unexpected visits. The faint gasps and swallowed names would have been probably ignored by the dozy brain, but his eyes could not ignore the evocative movements registered at the canthus, just barely outside their range. Listening to the fervid blood flowing in Will’s veins and slow steady rhythm of his hand under the half-thrown quilt ( _the same old one they had shared in the garden, oh god_ ), Chilton stood paralyzed (afraid of turning into a pillar of salt for one small glance).

Will breathed Chilton’s name into the cold air of the living room.

Chilton fled to the relevant safety of the bathroom and slid against the doors. Clenching his hands into tightly knotted fists, he fruitlessly tried to refrain from touching himself, touching the handle, touching anything and watching it crumble to pieces. The sound of unzipping his trousers seemed to be loud as a thunder storm, the first stroke of his cock sent an electric shock through his central neural network, soon followed by another and another and another ( _desperately wanting to be the tendons in Graham’s hand, to taste the sweat glistening at the man’s skin_ ). The frantic movements brought along guilty moans and congeneric yelps ( _craving_ to _just walk down the stairs and finally do something, something that he could be proud of_ )

(Graham stood at the top of the stairs, his legs bound by sounds coming from behind the locked door and his hands shaking at the mere thought)

 

v. With his heart still racing and the sensory cortex still screaming for him to hide, Chilton stood on the edge of the darkened living room turned into a vicious battlefield. His feet had glass deep inside of the vulnerable soles (his heart was in shreds on the wooden floor), the walking became even harder than usually, and yet he had limped out of his relatively safe position near the staircase.

During the attack, he had been surrounded by a protective barrier of dogs and, being an involuntary witness to the final chapter of tonight’s events, decided not to intervene directly. While Will went out to get the missing dog, the other man stayed inside and stopped the rest of the pack from following them (the long, heavy minutes with no option of checking the coastline). Even if initially he had also wanted to go out, harsh and short “Stay there” was enough to convince him otherwise.

Graham had blocked his vision, strategically positioning himself between the possible entries and his pack of the vulnerable strays (there was enough hurt done for the entire lifetime when Buster was wounded, so Graham threw another command to stay behind him), but now the sudden assault had ended and the beast ( _the man in a metal suit_ ) lied dead on the ground. Chilton noted anxiously that Graham still had not risen from his crouched position near the attacker and quietly murmured his name, his tone aiming for comforting but landing somewhere between petrified and escapist. The hitch in the breathing was the only reaction from the other man; if it weren’t for the dead silence in the room, Chilton would have not heard it (his ears still hadn’t recovered from dull sound of flesh and metal hitting the floor). Studying the man who had just beaten another human to death with his bare hands ( _the ghost of his faceless maker loomed on the treeline_ ), he had recklessly decided to come closer and reached out his shaking hand-

Graham immediately rose from his knees and caught it in an iron grip. A scream tore itself out of Chilton’s throat out of pain and shock ( _static breathing in his ear, smell of plastic and chloroform, no no no_ ) and he choked on it, silencing the sound.

“Stop, it’s me, Will, look at me!” he gasped, trying to meet the other’s eyes and find any remaining humanity there ( _had Lecter already borrowed all available sensory neurons from Will’s brain and there was nothing left?)._ Will reluctantly released his hand, but did not move away, apparently deciding that standing close enough for Chilton to be able to smell the sweat (adrenaline and cortisol are released as a part of stress response, increasing the sweating of a threatened organism) was acceptable. Instead he took his time to examine his hands, noting with obvious surprise the slowly drying blood on them. Chilton panted, his body slowly coming down from a secluded position on the hills of panic.

“You are not a killer, Frederick.“ Will looked at him over the bruised hands (the dilated pupils looked like poisoned wells), “And one of us had to become one tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “futile devices” by sufjan stevens.  
> quote in part i. from Exodus 21:22-25.


	5. they're flying within you again, but I won't let them eat you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from ‘when I said I wanted to be your friend’ by jens lekman, also known as the saddest song known to human race.  
> i will try to incorporate most of the events from the actual storyline from the show, but not all of them (ekhm, freddie, ekhm).

i. Chilton had never attended any funeral. His father died when he was only six and it was commonly agreed that a better solution for the boy in such a sensitive age would remaining at home (all alone, frightened of his newly discovered mortality and obsessively wondering about the post-mortem mechanics of human anatomy). When his mother died, he was busy burying himself deeper and deeper into the tempting quagmire of mental disorders and cognitive barriers and remained at university (all alone, frightened of his rediscovered solitude and mercilessly killing any overflying thoughts with the ever-helpful alcohol). And yet, despite of the lack of any previous memories, his social consciousness was full of cultural borrowings.

The meticulous transport of Randall Tier’s body reminded Chilton of a twisted funeral procession, as the wounded face was covered with cheap transparent polyethylene to avoid any accidental contact, as the now anonymous cadaver was wrapped up in rattled quilt and carried with almost gentle care to the car, as the eventually useless carefully constructed delicate machinery was hastily thrown into some plastic bags to be thrown into the nearest water reservoir. The only ritualistic element missing from the scene was the conduct of mourners ( _but who would mourn for the man who wanted to be the beast? Any transitions are still strongly frowned upon in Western society_ ). Chilton stood near the front window, half-hidden behind the curtain and closely observing the impossible events happening right before his empty eyes. The self-defense protector and self-proclaimed killer intended to offer his victim as a sacrifice to the greater evil (the only registered images in Chilton’s mind were that of bruised knuckles and triumphant faceless monster, languidly merged into one disturbing collage).

Having half-heartedly cleaned up the shattered window and sitting alone at the kitchen table, he wondered what Lecter would create out of the gifted body and who would eat that beautifully exhibited evidence. He desperately hoped that Will would be spared the dubious pleasure ( _being haunted by the letters of the monster’s name after the first and last meals they had shared was more than enough_ ).

The dawn was already shyly introducing itself to Wolf Trap when faint sounds of Will’s old car being parked outside could be heard. Chilton only watched apathetically as the other man walked into the house, removed his outerwear in methodical fashion and sat down heavily across the table. Graham cleared his throat (cleansing respiratory tract from dried lies and unused metaphors) and glanced at the living room.

“So I see that, uh, you cleaned up.”

“Yes.” Chilton’s sharp answer clearly shook the other man, as his eyes immediately fixed themselves onto his face, “The dogs would have hurt themselves otherwise.”

Will nodded his head several times, as though reminding himself of the animals’ existence, but remained silent. After a few more moments of awkward silence, Chilton decided that avoiding the issue currently staring at his face and rubbing nervously its wounded (now bandaged) knuckles would not be a good solution.

“We can sit here and ignore what has happened today, or we can discuss it,” he sighed and limped to the drawer in the kitchen. “But first we need to do something about that hands of yours.”

( _diversion is a deception designed to convince the enemy that another target will be attacked instead of a primary one_ )

Returning to the table with a handful of medical supplies and carefully taking the other’s hands, he noticed that they had already been washed and cleaned ( _did Hannibal lick them clean, did that monster try to infect you with his venom_ ), but the need to protect and care was stronger than any medical rational sense and the now blood-soaked bandages were ripped off. Repeating the procedure and bandaging gently the injured knuckles proved to be a tedious action and brought a certain domestic atmosphere into the house, smoothing the edges and brushing down the ruffled hair. Eventually Will opened his mouth and the words started to fall from his lips like a warm summer rain. Chilton could only sit there and listen carefully as before him a psychological labyrinth of trembling terror was painted with broad lying strokes and inked slivers of manipulation

(he wants me to become like him)

(he wants me powerful)

( _I felt powerful_ )

 

ii. During the following several days, Will spent more time at Hannibal’s distant house than in Wolf Trap. The initial resistance before Lecter’s influence seemed to be slowly dissolving in the man’s sharp lies, but under careful and honest care of Chilton Will was able to put up a good show of ostensible shift of faith. Apart from two occasional visits by a certain Margot Verger (Chilton had almost blown his cover and introduced himself during the first one), which apparently consisted entirely of sitting in the living room, drinking semi-expensive whiskey, and sharing sad, soft stories of dr. Lecter’s therapy sessions (hiding in his small room, Chilton wondered how high would be a mountain made out of old bones of all victims and accidental accomplices of that monster). Accompanied only by a pack of dogs and endless plain white fields, Chilton unsurprisingly turned to his old defense mechanism of careful and meticulous extermination of his brain matter with alcohol. Naturally, a miracle would be necessary for finding any particularly good poison in Will’s house, so he turned to the second best option. Soon the living room was littered with empty bottles and characteristic smell of cheap stinking bear, while the man himself rediscovered the magical properties of the couch, dozing half-covered with a blanket. In that potentially compromising and definitely unhealthy environment Will finally found him, when he had returned from yet another eon of a planned disappearance.

“Huh. You have longer hair than I do.” Graham said, “Would you like to do something about it?”

The question startled Chilton, standing in the hesitantly reclaimed kitchen and preparing some mediocre breakfast out of limited vegan substances. While keeping his beard under relative control (the razors in Wolf Trap seemed to automatically lose their sharpness, dulled by the surrounding vast void of human presence), he did not care much about his hair. He turned abruptly to face the other man, noticing the obvious exhaustion and certain roughness on the mental edges, hidden in the taut skin and hollow eyes ( _the burning mountains of mismatched identity and lost social neurotransmitters reeked of Lecter’s fingerprints_ ).

“What do you propose, then?” he asked, putting down the instinctually raised knife and wiping his hands. “My usual barber is unavailable, I’m afraid.”

“Well, there aren’t many options for you right now.” Will stood up from the table and smiled, “Come with me.”

Few minutes later, the two men found themselves in the bathroom upstairs, with Chilton sitting on the old chair ( _everything in Wolf Trap was old, worn out and far too lonely_ ) and Will standing above him with sharp scissors and sharper eyes.

“Is there any specific haircut I’m supposed to aim for?” he asked with a shy smile. Will threaded his fingers in the brown hair and gently pulled, moving Chilton’s head to the side (the resulting slow burn in the pain receptors went straight to his brain and lit it on fire).

Chilton collected himself before shaking his head minutely. Having his hair pulled or even brushed had always caused his skin to prickle with buzzing excitement and this time was not different. He soon lost himself in the rhythmic repetitions of schematic work necessary to duplicate some terrible haircut ( _pull and snip, snip and pull, pull and snip_ ), until all he could feel was every single touch of the other’s fingers in the hair follicles.

(being so touch-starved that _he was ready to beg Will to continue even after all of his hair would be gone_ had never really gone away since college)

After the repetitious mechanics had ended and the tarnished mirror was raised in front of Chilton, he could not help but laugh. While the haircut looked better than the one he had woefully envisioned in his inner mind (softer and less controlled than his old one was a strangely fitting analogue), it was Will who had cut his hair with the same old scissors that he used to cut his dogs’ unruly fur. He had become one of the collected strays, but with that realization there was no longer laughter building in his throat, no lost chuckle threatening to fall from his lips, not even one funny association stuck in the mind ( _human beings are social animals with a basic need to belong_ ).

“Now that you’re looking sharp as ever, we can go outside finally,” Will said while cleaning up the cut hair, “The dogs would enjoy playing in the fresh snow.”

Now the fresh vibrations of winter air were cutting into Chilton’s newly uncovered face and the too-long sleeves of the winter coat were tightly pulled over the freezing hands, as he took his first hesitant step out of the front door. Taking pity on the shaking man, Will removed his cashmere grey scarf and carefully wrapped it around the other’s throat (reminding him of the soft pressure of the fingertips), causing him to shiver despite the increased temperature and lean more heavily on the cane. The two men stood side by side on the porch, sharing the sparse resources of heat in the winter air and watching the stoic landscape with the quiescent soundtrack of barking and playful growling.

(Chilton felt that he had finally found someone he could belong to)

 

iii. The strange noises during the nighttime (or daytime, for that matter) were not that uncommon in Wolf Trap, as usually at least one of the dogs was awake (they all had a tendency to move around in cryptic pathways in the darkness, bumping into random objects). Also, the old construction of the lone house caused creaking of the wooden floors, squeaking of pipes or even slamming windows. However, soft feminine gasps or quick shutter of a camera were not included in the short list of the intended sounds (at least, not in the one available to Chilton).

He had first heard them when he entered the house from the back, returning with Buster from the garden (as the wound was healing, the poor dog was unable to run with the other animals and had to be separated to avoid further harm. The strangely corresponding analogue was not missed by Chilton, but rather carefully pushed to the unvisited part of his memory). Putting the dog on the ground and grasping a nearest potential weapon (his wooden cane) tighter in his shaking hand, he prepared himself mentally for the possibility of short inglorious attack and slowly limped from his hidden position in the corridor. He stopped dead in his tracks, noticing a small silhouette of ghost from another life ( _another death_ ) in front of the windows.

“My, my. How the mighty have fallen.” Freddie Lounds smirked and threw her red mane over the shoulder, “In the quiet of my heart I have suspected you would be here.” She stepped over a randomly disposed pillow and continued, “I wonder if our dear federal agents have shared my theory.”

“If they had, I would not be standing here,” Chilton followed her sham fumbling around the room with narrowed eyes.

“Yes, that would be unlikely. But you have always been a survivalist.” She deliberately roamed her eyes over the living room, noting the small forest of empty bottles on the table, the old battered quilt on the couch and the clothes on Chilton’s body (full of empathetic nightmares and joyfully accepted dog affection) and raised her camera with a perfectly arched eyebrow, “Would you mind standing still for a second? I have this wild thought of the most perfect photograph to go with my newest article. And I think I already know the title.”

“Let me guess, ‘Chilton: killing under the influence’?”

“Actually, mine was closer to ‘The Chesapeake Drinker’, but I might borrow yours. It’s catchier.” Her smile was small and sharp like a pocketknife when she quickly added, “So, how about this photograph?”

“How about we both help each other out?” Chilton slowly approached the woman, observing with small satisfaction the radiant flicker of fright on her face.

“There is no gain for me here, Chilton.” She glanced once again at the surrounding pieces of his isolation spluttered across the room. “It actually looks to me that you are the one needing my help. Or any help, for that matter.”

Chilton ignored that last remark and threw the bait once again. “Come on, Lounds, you’re a journalist. You must see the potential benefits of our cooperation. You would get my side of story, the only chance to tell the tale of the golden patsy. In return, you would only have to carry out a genuine and thorough journalistic investigation.”

“And what would you gain from this cooperation?” Lounds seemed to be genuinely interested now, the thin mask of bravado peeled from her expression and replaced with poorly hidden worry, “What about you?” ( _have you got no preservational instinct? he is going to eat you alive and return the undigested remnants of your pitiful existence_ )

“What about me?” Chilton shook his head and chuckled nervously, “It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” (this was worth dying for, this was worth everything)

( _desperate times may lead to desperate measures_ )

 

iv. A knock on the door threw Chilton out of his shallow slumber and a following sound of creaking hinges involuntarily opened his eyes, allowing him to observe a one Will Graham in extremely nervous mental setting despite the other’s exemplary cloaking (the fidgeting and flaying hands would have given anybody away even without Chilton’s psychiatrist education). He sat up a little higher, waiting for the preferably convincing explanation of the other’s presence in his small room.

“I found some ginger curly hairs in the living room.” Will licked his lips (Chilton’s eyes religiously followed the movement) and hesitated before continuing, “Is there anything you would like to tell me about?”

Facing the choice between an obvious lie and dangerous truth, Chilton dived right into the knives, “Freddie Lounds was here today.”

Will closed his eyes and sighed, sitting down on the very edge of the bed. “What did she want?”

“She apparently decided that her abilities of predicting serial killers’ movements were superior to those of federal agents.” The other man puffed with slight irritation, ”She sought fresh blood for her mediocre articles.”

“And did she find some?”

“Not exactly,” Chilton rubbed his chin, hyper-aware of the position of the other’s limbs on the bed and his half-naked state. “She found something else, though.”

“What did you do, Frederick?” Will opened his eyes and stared at the visible side of Chilton’s face, “What did you do?”

“I offered her a deal.” The meaningful echoes of a similarly phrased sentence were loud and clear ( _back in another life, when they still were just a patient and his doctor, when there were no iron beasts in living room or quiet dawns and evenings over chamomile tea_ ).

“Aren’t you afraid of the consequences?” Will asked, lying on his side and moving closer to the other man until their arms were touching, “I know what happened the last time someone tried to outwit Hannibal.“

(Chilton could see in his eyes the reflected slices of Beverly Katz’s mutilated flesh, crammed between far too many layers of thin glass) ( _you’re next, Frederick_ )

“Don’t worry. He won’t go after me.” Chilton looked away and smiled woefully, “I am the ugliest prey, the one with nothing to lose.”

Will leaned his head on the other’s chest and whispered into his skim, “You have me. I’m not much,” He exhaled nervously, his breath skimming the naked collarbone, “but I won’t let you lose me.”

Chilton partially pulled away the covering thin duvets, clearly communicating his request to the other man. Will slowly filled the space between the sheets, minding old wounds and new anxieties, holding the smaller man in the safe care of his arms and kissing him on his parted mouth. The gentle touch on shoulder bones caused Chilton to shudder ( _oh_ ) and migrate closer, his accelerated heartbeat almost audible in the enclosed circle of their bodies. He wanted to tell everyone of that particular sensation in the spinal cord, wanted to inform the whole world of the occurring exchange of bodily fluids and unspoken emotions, wanted to feed those people the smoothness of their bodies and sweet stickiness of sweaty skin (and yet, the whole of Wolf Trap was embalmed in a sweet bubble of conspiracy).

Will slid down the flickering length of his body and, noticing the glistening pink scar (Chilton felt as if he was bursting at the seams from the boiling tension), slowly, oh so slowly mouthed the taut length of it. Under careful kisses and nibbles Chilton shook and whimpered, wordlessly urging Will to move further ( _to ignore the visible evidence of his defeats_ ), but went silent and arched his body when he felt the other’s breath ghosting at his cock, warm fingers curling around the shaft and giving him the first expertly performed stroke, a clever tongue licking the vulnerable skin and hot mouth swallowing the head.

Chilton pushed blindly at the other’s shoulders (searching with his hands for his mental landscape, rapidly falling apart with each touch). Digging fingernails into his skin seemed to only provoke Will further, as he gagged on his cock and swallowed it down, tickling Chilton’s pubic hair and causing a slow ascent of pleasure to turn into an exponential flight. Eventually it became too much and under murmured plea from the other man Will rose once again, wearing only his small smile and Chilton’s feverish gaze ( _why are you with me, when you could be with anybody else, oh don’t ever change your mind_ ), and kissed him firmly on the mouth, grinding their bodies together. Chilton’s greedy hands mapped out Will’s back and clawed right in when he finally came from the carefully applied pressure of the other’s hips, painting the other’s skin with the fragile cells and white marks from the clenched hands. After a moment of frantic rutting against the sweaty hipbones, Will bit down on the available shoulder and shuddered, coming as well.

Coming down from the blinding peak of pleasure, slowly normalizing respiration rate and having wiped away the sticky remains of a barely finite epiphany, Will fell asleep on the bed, laying next to the other man. The sweat on his brow glistened in the faint light from the corridor and Chilton became suddenly mesmerized by the man’s vast personality, encompassing not only a generously stirred mixture of mental disorders, but also generosity and pure brightness.

(he made Chilton want to pretend to be a better man)

(to be a little bit more like him)

( _to be with him_ )

 

v. Most serial killers or abusers have a special place, body part or killing method they particularly like. Some enjoy seeing their victims disemboweled or decapitated, others attack the genitals or secondary sexual organs, there are cases of murderers only attacking in certain houses or streets. In Hannibal Lecter’s case it was the mind, as the intricate mental manipulations, careful twisting of the reality into complicated labyrinths and gaslighting could have been observed since the beginning of his great hunting for Will (and in the disappearance of Abigail Hobbs, the circumstances of her father’s failed capture, the murder of Beverly Katz,  the cryptic escape of Bedelia du Maurier, the grand frame of Chilton himself…) ( _the repugnant fingerprints of the cannibal claws were spread across the map of Baltimore like black holes_ ). The characteristic traces of Lecter’s involvement were usually as faint as a cigarette smoke, but those who knew where and how to look could easily find them and flee in shock and survival instinct.

That was the reason for the pure terror rushing through Chilton’s nerves and numbing his muscles when he noticed the generously set table in their kitchen. The overflowing dishes of beautifully cut vegetables, an opulent bowl of steaming orange soup and carefully chosen silver cutlery seemed to appear overnight (his brain hectically recoiled from the issue of potential source of the food, leaving Chilton motionless and without support). Even though every cell in his body had been replaced by naturally occurring phenomenon called regeneration, his operational memory immediately recognized the signs of home invasion and the man responsible for it.

“Good morning, Frederick,” Hannibal Lecter smiled without moving his skin. “Have a sit.”


	6. oh a candle at my chest and a hand on his knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title from ‘night terror’ by laura marling. i am thinking about creating a mix for this fic, as there are certain songs that i tend to listen during writing and that fit this relationship.  
> quote in part iii. from John 20:24-29.  
> oh, and the rating is going up.

i. The air seemed to conveniently freeze inside the looming walls of Wolf Trap, caught in the trivial moment of terrible invasion of privacy. None of the men currently present in the lone house dared to break the floe of truce (either out of pure preservation instinct or a politely misguided understanding of curiosity), but finally Chilton succumbed to his heavily trained sense of survival and slowly approached the kitchen table, looking out for any transparent signs of predatory intentions (his cons and rods could not keep up with the registration of all the available stimuli, all laid out on a silver platter in chronological and alphabetical order).

( _Captor bonding. It's a passive psychological response to a new master. Been an essential survival tool for a million years._ )

“So what’s on the menu?” he tried for a light nonchalance and had never missed that greatly.

“Why do you ask, dr. Chilton?” Lecter’s discreet movement in the armchair was almost imperceptible to the human eye (Chilton’s face was hit with an ugly minor convulsion), “Do you not trust me? I can assure you that everything here is adjusted to your limited protein digestion.”

“I have become, um, apprehensive about eating food from unknown sources recently, dr. Lecter.” Chilton carefully hid the plague of fear spreading in his body and sat behind the kitchen table, smelling the brackish tang of hot onion soup and putting up a useless barricade against the other man. “I can’t imagine the possible reason.”

Lecter only smiled with a mild amusement, as though he was faced with a not cooperating small animal. “Suit yourself. But I would loathe to see this feast go wasted. Perhaps we should wait for Will to return from his little trip with Jack Crawford”.

( _you bond with your capture, you survive_ )

“If you wanted to meet with Will, why are you here?” Chilton desperately struggled to keep his facial muscles under relative control and not to reveal the burning conflagration of dichotomous emotions inside him ( _fury terror pure hatred fear fear fear_ ), “You do have scheduled therapy sessions with him.”

“Oh, but why do you assume I am here for our dear William?” Lecter shook his head minutely, as if disappointed with the other man and his single-minded focus, “No, I actually intend to discuss him with you, Frederick.”

Chilton narrowed his eyes. “What would be the purpose of this discussion?”

( _you don't, you're breakfast_ )

“You have been spending a great amount of time with him. I thought it would be useful for me as his,” Lecter suspended his voice significantly, but the significance was only pronounced in the minutiae of his unmovable expression, ”therapist if I were to know both your subjective perspective and a professional opinion on his subject.”

Chilton nodded his head to answer the unspoken question about consent, though a frantic laughter wanted to break free out of his tight throat in response to this monster’s concerns with psychiatrist ethics (he smothered it down with a small reminiscence of the burning smell of chloroform and a quiet dread of plastic armour).

“Let us start with the most basic question. How would you describe your relationship with Will Graham, Frederick?” Lecter asked in a seemingly calm and steady monotone, but his voice glistened with a sudden glimpse of fresh blood on the darkened knife.

(the need to tear open his ribcage and remove the heart, stop the vital beating and set his insides on fire dominated Chilton’s hectic thought processes, blinding his conscience and silencing the trembling anxiety) ( _this is mine don't touch mine_ )

“How is that relevant? No, ignore that. Why is that so relevant that you classify it as the most basic question?” Chilton openly stared into the monster’s eyes and found that there was no humanity looking back, only insatiable curiosity.

“What is the nature of your relationship with Will Graham?” Lecter stared right back, emitting an aura of predatory interest and potential broken skulls.

“He just took me in.” Chilton said quietly after a prolonged moment of coiled silence and continued more loudly, “How about we turn this little question around, shall we? What is the reason for _your_ interest in Will Graham?”

“I am fascinated by him,” the other man said without any outward expression or emotion and Chilton silently grieved for his artificial sense of safety that had quickly withered and died. “He eludes the bonds that enable our pitiful society to mindlessly carry on, yet he is able to be a valid and, to some extend, welcomed part of that society.”

“Do not put his neuroatypicality on a pedestal, dr. Lecter. Will is on the spectrum, yes. But this fact should not be a basis for dehumanizing fetishization,” Chilton interrupted quickly with a choking need to protect and defend and shield ( _mine mine mine don’t you even dare to touch him_ ), “or used as a smokescreen for one’s ethically dubious procedures.”

Lecter ignored this remark and continued, “The limited perception of human beings can be seen as too harsh by certain individuals. Perhaps Will is one of them.”

“And is that what you think? That Will wants to shed his skin and become something else, something greater than a mere human being? Would you like to assess him with his becoming?” Chilton chuckled darkly and lowered his gaze to look at his hands, “This is a very far-reaching theory, dr. Lecter, but I am afraid that it is inconsistent with the reality.”

“Which actuality do you think about when you speak those words? The one in which it is you, not me, who has a certain documented habit of unorthodox treatment?” Lecter cocked his head like a particularly interested reptile and slowly stood up from the armchair, “I do not need to remind you of the consequences of such practices, I assume.” (the scar on Chilton’s abdomen burnt worse than it did under Gideon’s gentle scalpel)

“Dr. Lecter, I am not the only psychiatrist in this room who has used such methods. Or have you forgotten about Randall Tier? About your other former patients that have turned up later in my hospital?” Usually the potential destruction of the gathering earthquake is estimated by Richter magnitude scale or Mercalli intensity scale. Chilton franticly measured the careful footsteps of the other man on the battered wooden floor, each bringing him closer and closer like an unwanted snowfall.

“Except that my actions have never included enforcing false identity, as opposed to your outstanding treatment of dr. Abel Gideon. I do not intend for Will to become a monster that you clearly consider me to be, Frederick, but also I do not claim that he is a purely innocent creature. He may have taken you in out of misguided act of altruism, but there is nothing greater hidden in the mock depths of your relations. All that you can see in him is a tamed animal, held back by the social conventions and ill-mannered obligations. But I…” Lecter paused and smiled down at the still sitting man, showing his snow-white teeth and reddened gums.

( _the darkest side of Chilton’s heart hissed threateningly at Lecter, daring him to do anything, to try and take away what’s his, to do any harm to Will_ )

“I can see _him_.”

(just one breathtaking moment later, Chilton could not see a single thing)

 

ii. Waking up after being attacked by the monster hidden under carefully tailored disguise of a mild-mannered psychiatrist was not easy the last time Chilton experienced it, but now this particular activity was mixed with the act of acknowledging one’s uncomfortable position of being tied to an old armchair and (even more invasive) slowly bleeding out on the tapestry of the mentioned piece of furniture. He blinked his eyes few times, trying to wash away the remaining stains of chemically induced loss of consciousness and the salt traces of his futile struggle. The deep cuts on his arms could be almost ignored by his tessellated neural network, if it weren’t for the heavy smell of blood in the still air which was violently attacking his nose with a palpable evidence of his near-death experience. He wondered briefly where did the dogs go, whether the faceless monster attacked them as well, what other living creature did he manage to assault in his foraging behaviour, but this train of thoughts was quickly smothered by his exhausted imagination (the flickering image of Will had hurt far greatly than any physical injury).

After a seemingly never-ending time lapse, in which Chilton discontinuously drifted in and out of Wolf Trap’s lazy oasis, the front door opened with a loud bang and an agitated person entered his shallow range of vision. Registering the sudden movement with last available water in his cognitive well,  he slowly turned his hollow head and faintly recognized the figure as Will. As his organism had finally succumbed to the inevitable consequences of a massive blood loss and stress response, on the verge of his consciousness he saw that in a scalped fraction of a second, the other’s face turned completely white (like the dried bark of a sycamore, from which all the dead leaves were blown away by the brutal north wind)

(then only safe nothingness)

( _you’re next, Frederick_ )

( _Frederick_ )

“Frederick? Frederick, wake up,” a soft voice kept repeating those desperate pleas, but only now it reached his treacherous auditory receptors. Upon opening his eyes, Chilton’s vision seemed to return in distinct phases. At first, he saw only the characteristic grimace on Will’s face (a small, unobtrusive crease between his eyebrows that grew in size as the source of irritation was still present. A quirky, self-deprecating lift of one of his mouth’s corners, usually left one. An impulsive wrinkling of the bridge of his nose), and then did he notice the faint sketch of his small room upstairs, the stiff cheap beddings in the surprisingly comfortable bed and the crouching worry in the other’s body, now hesitantly relaxing after subconsciously noticing his awareness.

“You’re awake now, good.” Will made an aborted attempt to move closer, than he seemed to cut himself mentally from that idea. “I’m sorry that I ask this, but how much do you remember from before?”

“My name is Frederick Chilton,” he started with a hoarse and shuttered voice, absently noting the selfless flinch of recognition on Will’s face. “I am currently in Wolf Trap, Virginia. I was, I was attacked by H-Hannibal Lecter…” his voice broke, as his mind desperately searched for any noticeable remains of time frame around his memories, but there were none found in the mental desolated desert.

“Yesterday, I think.” Will thankfully took over, effortlessly noticing his hesitance. “I returned home after finishing at the crime scene. First I went to the barn to put away the supplies and the dogs were trapped there, barking madly,” he stopped suddenly, looking off in the direction of the backyard. “Then I ran here and found you downstairs. I, uh, I tried to patch you up with what I have here, but it wasn’t much and we can’t go to the hospital so-“ he trailed off and hunched a little, having run out of his prepared script and coming across a rough sketch of his own emotions.

“And I’m sure you did a great job,” Chilton tried to convey his vast gratitude in that weak remark (silently assessing the state of his battered body, evaluating the possible renovation cost and lining up an expanding list of possible retribution) after listening to this detailed description of the missed time and space.

“That was 4 hours ago and this is the first time you regained your consciousness,” Will sighed and lied down next to him, moving him closer. “But you will probably be okay, once you body manages to rebuild lost blood and your wounds close up.” He motioned with his hand to the other’s arms, indicating the carefully wrapped white bandages and silently throbbing slits in the hidden skin.

Chilton winced slightly, but moved his body so that his head lied on Will’s chest (listening to the solid heartbeat was a true comfort after the underlying motives of threat in the monster’s sonnet about Will’s mental landscape). His breathing rate was slowly levelling, adjusting itself to its twin sibling of the other man. A comfortable sense of quiet and relative safety (with the maroon-bronze figure of the faceless danger always hiding in the shadows) overruled the twitching corpse of Chilton’s panic, but there was still one remaining bright red dot.

“He wanted to know about us,” Chilton whispered into the dark room, breathed into the other’s warm skin. “He said he wanted me to discuss you with him, but that wasn’t his real intent. Why should he want to listen to my professional opinion about your mind, if I am not even legally a psychiatrist right now? No, no. He only wanted me to tell him about us.”

Will’s breathing hitched and his arm tightened around the other’s body, creating possessive shivers in his muscles. Chilton felt the other’s lips on his hair and a soft murmur that broke a floating moment of silence.

“I will get him, Frederick. If the FBI will want to keep him, they will have to fight me, because there is no possibility of them getting him alive. Because I want for him to know that it is me,” (his voice went deeper and deeper, until there was nothing left but Chilton’s bare bones and trembling sense of understanding), “me, who is holding his whole existence in my hands and can crush him whenever I want to. Me, who will finally defeat him, bring him to his knees and make him feel guilt.”

Will smoothed Chilton’s hair and kissed his burning forehead. “And I want his repenting to be made out of your redemption.”

 

iii. ( _according to reciprocal altruism theory, an animal may decide to behave altruistically if there is a realistic expectation that the favour will be returned in the future_ )

The living room had once again become Chilton’s main habitat, as his organism took his precious time to renew itself and any further trips than five, six steps (even with the ever-helping support of his cane) drained his remaining scarce resources. The dogs loved this refurbished establishment, though – after Hannibal’s unwanted visit they became especially wary without Chilton within sight, often surrounding his entrenched position on the old couch or sleeping right outside the closed doors of his small room. The semi-permanent nature of his relocation downstairs would have been troublesome, if Will spent more time at Wolf Trap than only occasional flickering hours or if there were any particularly common guests in the house. Being left to his own company consisting only of his anxieties and pure loneliness, Chilton once again fell right back into his old habit of ingesting poorly conceived alcohol and slow social decomposition. In this pitiful position he was found once by Margot Verger, who had appeared in Wolf Trap out of thin air (the grim grimace on her face and stiff shoulders suggested rather a heavy stormy wind).

“I should have known it was you,” her soft sigh woke him up from a shallow nap and he stared at her blindly, “Who else could have caused him to finally break his careful porcelain mask?”

“Who exactly are you talking about?” Chilton reluctantly foresaw the answer (blindly staring at her invasive figure and noticing the screaming signs of domestic terror) and sat up from his lying position, assuming the reluctant and dusted role of a psychiatrist.

( _it can be difficult for any individual to change their adapted characteristics, as this may lead to lost of any acquired evolutionary advantages_ )

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter, naturally.” She sat heavily on the nearest armchair and closed her eyes, continuing with the slow verbal destruction of Chilton's comfort, “He has become somewhat preoccupied with you, now that William is out of his reach. During our sessions-”

Chilton interrupted her abruptly, “’Out of reach’?”

“Yes, he avoids his therapy sessions, or rather ‘commits himself fully to the FBI consulting’.” The mocking intonation clearly indicated that those words were merely a self-conscious replication of the original remark. “Our shared therapist is clearly not pleased with the current situation. I think he blames you.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Do you always vivisect your current conversations with other people, dr. Chilton?” She opened her eyes and stared at him with blatant dare and strongly assumed  confidence.

“A professional curiosity, I suppose.”

“Not a defence mechanism?” She saw through his crystalline dams like roaring river waters and smiled (recognizing a failing construction of her own), readjusting her restrained arms and carefully created facial expression. “Dr. Lecter hears no evil and sees no evil, but he certainly speaks evil. Especially about you.” After a quick glance at his listening figure on the couch, she quietly continued with her novelette. “He wanted me to kill my brother. Or at least he encouraged it very strongly.”

“He wanted to kill me,” Chilton replied without batting an eye. “Or at least he wanted to use me as his patsy.”

She laughed unexpectedly, but there was not happiness in the thin sound (only butchered pigs and the perspective of mazes), “He does not think any higher of me, does he? No, I am his experimental rat, his little pet project.”

“Why are you here, Margot?” ( _outright questioning may be useful in treating particularly closed or manipulative patients_ )

It took her a while to answer, and that unmemorable time was spent by her small hands repetitively smoothing the already flat surface of her claret coat. “Do you ever wonder about your legacy, dr. Chilton? I have recently developed a habit of doing so and I have found that I cannot stop now. I fear for a further continuation of my genetic inheritance, I fear for the continuation of my brother’s troublesome manners, I fear that my hands are unspeakably tied with the last joke of the dead man. Without any male heirs to the Verger fortune, every single penny goes to the church.” She slowly stood up (her eyes were dead locked on his left hand, compartmentalizing the events and the person before her) and sat next to the now silently observing man, “What is going to be left of me, a never-to-be heir to the possessed empire, after I finalize dr. Lecter’s scientific project?”

Finally locking his eyes with the woman, Chilton felt as though there was a whole new twisted fairytale hidden before him (and no one had bothered to tell him the ending).

“I am experiencing a moratorium around now, dr. Chilton. A rare moment of clarity in my life, where I can see the right path,” she whispered, moving her hand in a clearly rehearsed motion, reaching for his face. “Help me with following through.”

In his mind, Chilton could see her hunched naked at the distant foot of her lone bed, with arms embracing the empty space around her caged identity and a quiet understanding of the saddest tragedy the modern world offers people with unblessed insides and upsetting proclivities. He could not see her naked at the foot of his lone bed, shuddering from a different variety of understanding and potential flickering of creation, but he could believe into the vision of distinctly different Margot strongly enough, so that it would become true one day and he could see it with his own eyes.

( _unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe_ )

Chilton took her sneakily reaching hand into one of his own and firmly held it, “I can help you, Margot.”

( _sometimes an animal may help others in order to reduce the distress it experiences from observing their misery_ )

 

iv. Sitting alone in his small room, Chilton wondered whether he hadn’t acted recklessly and without proper consideration, one that would be appropriate for the task awaiting him. Would he be a good father? (Would he be a father?) Considering his own historical background of fatherly experience, full of white affection spots and faded torques of accidental meetings, it would be hard for Chilton to see himself as any worthwhile parental material. And yet here he was, staring at the empty medical cap in his slightly trembling hand and thinking about running away on his not sufficiently stable legs far, far away, so that it would become humanly possible to ignore the quiet and intrusive presence of Margot downstairs (after her failed attempt to seduce him with a poorly hidden primal disgust and slowly burning terror in her guts, she stayed there on the old coach, hugging the grey quilt and looking with wide white eyes into apathetic nothingness).

Pulling down his trousers and boxers, he could not help but think briefly about his previous life, the one in which he would never consider having children (or be something valuable to one lonely victim of wrongly assumed brotherhood and hidden purple bruise flowers). But now he had fallen barefoot into the world of strange, strange woods and the first stroke of his cock felt like sharp needles of forest undergrowth digging in his feet and cutting the soles open. He did not dare to lay back on the bed and make himself comfortable, as this was not about his pleasure and he had no intention of futilely pretending otherwise.

Chilton jacked off with methodical and pragmatic precision, ignoring the aching emptiness in the space around him (where was the warmth, where was the gentleness). He had promised her nothing but empty, empty lies and she knew it; however, there was nothing else left she could do. She had wanted nothing but selflessness sacrifice out of his blood and flesh; however, there was nothing else left he could give her (and he gave and he gave and he gave).

The tugs and strokes had turned themselves into an almost violent, self-punishing ritual (he wanted to pay for his success with all of his defeats and failures). Somehow Will Graham drifted into his mind and he was entirely, completely, absolutely stuck on the man’s expressive face, gentle callous hands of someone used to the physical work, the calming voice he usually used to talk the dogs into coming inside (or Chilton to come down from a wrenching panic attack in the middle of the night), the maddening sound of his fists hitting Tier’s bare flesh and drawing blood (numbing the small broken moans and creaking of the bed underneath him), his darkened eyes that night, the possessive hold of the strong arm around his own vulnerable throat-

The sudden powerful surge of climax caught him by surprise, finding him deep in the dark oozing depression and thrusting desperately into his warm palm, spilling his come into the plastic cap ( _just let me have this one, just this one attempt to become someone greater than I could ever be, oh god please_ )

( _you have me. I’m not much_ )

( _but I won’t let you lose me_ )

 

v. The persona suit that Will Graham had created for himself worked perfectly; not only did it offer a somewhat successful protection against Lecter’s unseen cognitive infestations, but also provided a clear sign for the others in the nearest proximity ( _I am Hannibal’s lure, I am Hannibal’s play, I am Hannibal’s unseen threat of vicious retribution_ ). The carefully tailored clothes, that combined both his innate attention for details and newly developed sense of conventional elegance, marked him as a potential sacrificial lamb on the altar of federal justice. When Chilton walked downstairs in the middle of the night (looking for the shallow comfort of the chilled alcohol), he immediately recognized how Will had spent his evening only on the basis of his meticulously prepared appearance and distinctive emotional closure written in his facial muscles with bloodless ink.

Openly signalizing his intentions like a waving white flag, Chilton limped slowly to the refrigerator and took one of the remaining few bottles of cheap bear. Then he sat down at the table, wary of his injuries and the burning gaze from across the room, burning holes in his head and causing confusion in his mind.

“Why was Margot Verger here?” the sudden question launched a waterfall of instinctive responses ( _don’t stop Will please trust me don’t_ ). “She told me today that, uh, she knows about you.”

“Why shouldn’t she be here?” he snapped, tired of the half-hidden lies and blatant sighs of emotional manipulation in the other man (the blackened fingerprints marked his sophisticated clothes and the aura of red wine surrounding him like bad luck)

( _convergence is the assumption of the same characteristics by individuals sharing a habitat_ )

“Margot Verger seeks a particular kind of help, Frederick. She has already discussed it with me, but we agreed not to play chances with my, uh, potential genetic influences,” Will said and looked sharply at the other, “Have you agreed to help her?”

“Yes, I have.” The bare honesty of this answer and bold gulp from the bottle seemed to cut right into Will’s mental buckler of compartmentalization and self-perseverance, causing his face to ripples in a sudden paroxysm (his eyes lingered languidly on the moving throat).

“So you have just decided to give her your body?” A short exhalation of disbelief caused a short lapse of tension in the room and transferred the moment into unspoken territory, bringing Will closer to the table (the useful border of the physical object brought strange feeling of comfort to Chilton).

“Yes." Chilton took another swing of the disgusting beer, feeling its bitterness already irritating his taste buds. "And nowadays there are more methods of conceiving a child than conventional old one, Will.” He answered, looking up at the other’s burning expression with a whispered dare of his own. “What is the difference between my sacrifice and the one you make at the hands of Hannibal Lecter? At least I have a strong moral justification.” He angrily spat out the last question, gesturing wildly with the now half-empty bottle, “What have you got apart from your misguided need of revenge?”

The response of Will was so purely instinctive that it had to be true, unaffected by the mentioned monster, and driven by the most primal of his brain. His face was shocked by an ugly grimace of want and anger and he launched himself at Chilton, pinning him to the kitchen table (the soft gasp of pain was muffled by the wild heartbeats and sudden surge of incandescent pleasure neurotransmitters), kissing him roughly and taking hold of his fragile wrists that tried to grab his face.

“She is so lonely, trapped in her glass cage of social conventions and brotherly hatred.” His words were bitten right out of his mouth and swallowed by Will’s hunger, but he still continued, driven by a religious need to explain, “How could I refuse, ah, how could I refuse her this last worthy resource that I have left?”

The only reaction from Will was the tightening of his hold on the other’s hands and quiet growl near Chilton’s ear, causing him to shiver and grow harder in his plaid boxers.

“Though I know this will almost certainly fail, I am glad that she would be pregnant with my child,” Chilton whispered into the warmed surface of dark curls and noted the small earthquake his words caused. “This could be my legacy.”

“Do you really think this is your only one?” Will’s lips interrupted their scalding assault of Chilton’s jawline and neck to say hungrily, “There is much more to you. And you can’t even see it.” The last words were accentuated by a hard pelvic thrust, shuddering the remaining barricades between the two men (built out of insecurities and meaningful looming presence of the faceless monster and hunting federal dogs on the doorsteps) and causing Chilton to groan loudly in the cold air of the desolated living room and align their lips once again in a heated kiss. With a possessive sound down in his throat, Will pushed Chilton up on the kitchen table and invaded the welcoming space between his legs. Holding his wrists in one iron hand (the pleasant gasps it elicited from the other man was clearly noted by the earnest empathetic senses), he begun to run his other calloused palm across the shuddering chest hair, the reddened scar tissue on Chilton’s stomach, the widely spread welcoming thighs.

Chilton suddenly realized that Will was still clothed in his taunting attire, tailored specifically for one monster’s peculiar taste, while he himself was one tattered boxers away from absolute, total, vulnerable nakedness (the rush of blood to his head was accompanied by a much stronger one to his groin). He moaned, brushing the other’s lips with warmed breath, and arched his hips into Will, causing the hand roaming now over his back to leave possessive white half-moons on his skin.

Will released the captured wrists and pushed Chilton down on the flat surface, keeping him there with one strong palm positioned strategically on his surgical scar.

“Stay there. I will be back in the minute.”

Laying down on the cold table, Chilton thought briefly of the unusual turn his life had taken recently (and how his nerves sang with comfortable pleasure each time he was touched, how his breath grew uneven with increasing physical intimacy, how he wished for this man to return and never, never go away again). The flickering wonder was quickly smothered by the overwhelming sense of gratitude and grounding after Will’s return. Putting down the seemingly necessary supplies on the table, he returned to Chilton with raw dedication and merciless focus that turned him quickly into a pile of shuddering receptors and endless heated skin

( _why aren’t you falling down with me, Will_ )

Removing the sole remaining barrier on Chilton’s body, opening his own belt with a rapid flick of wrist and pulling down his pants and underwear low enough to expose his hardened cock was accompanied by kisses and soft moans and bites and sudden groans. Finally meeting skin to skin, for a short moment they two men lost themselves in the pure physical sensations rushing through their epithelial receptors. With Will’s breath on his collarbone and face carefully hidden in the hot cache of his neck, Chilton felt the first touch of wet fingertips on his hole

( _what is on your mind when your eyes look past me_ )

The initial burn lasted far longer than the initial hesitance, but Chilton gritted his teeth and groaned. After the first fleeting touch of his prostate the burn stopped blistering altogether, metamorphosing itself into a welcomed boiling tension in his toes, pulling his legs upwards in a reflex response, until they covered his shameful scar and exposed his vulnerability and desperate loneliness.

“Fuck me, Will.” His voice was so rough and needing that even Chilton had troubles with associating this primal timbre with himself, putting down his head on the flat surface with a loud bang and exposing his throat, “please, just fuck me.”

The responding groan from the other man sounded especially loud in the restricted area between their bodies. With a small kiss against Chilton’s pulse point and following sharp lick, Will removed his fingers and stood up. In the faint moonlight coming from the frosted kitchen windows, the tall and imposing figure built out of half-removed rumpled clothes of social importance and poorly hidden mental tessellations struck the man laying on the table as inexpressibly hostile and awe-inspiring (in the same way a wolf may induce a sudden glimpse of existential nostalgia in a bloodied and injured prey). Roughly pulling the offered hips closer to himself, Will entered him, eliciting a loud moan created in unequal proportions out of reluctantly expected pain and sharp thrust of pleasure.

( _why are your hands like sharpened claws on my thighs_ )

The stable imprints of Will’s hands on his hips caused Chilton to shudder and moan, moving his muscles along to the thrusts and meeting each of them in asynchronous rugged dance. Chilton pulled at his hair with his own shaking hands, trying to find any supporting anchors, but his wrists were soon recaptured by one of Will’s searching palms, which pinned them down on the sweaty smooth skin of his sternum and held them there stubbornly. Will pressed his other hand to Chilton’s face, turning it into the cold surface of kitchen table, and leaned down, kissing his unobstructed cheek and drawing blood from a harsh bite on the offered sensitive throat.

( _what has happened today at the monster’s lair that caused you to wear a hastily replanted facelessness_ )

Chilton could feel the trenchant increase in the intensity and frequency of the trust in the churning closing of his lungs, losing his heart under the hard press of Will’s palm, the blossoming marbles of bruising on his hipbones and coccyx. Cutting his mind on the small determined blackening of Will’s dilated pupils,

( _how does your face manage to look clean as a polished silver sacrificial plate_ )

he shuddered and closed his eyes, fleeing from a necessity of observing a response to his small avalanche of final notes of hot-white-blinding pleasure. Crying out and pulling his own body closer together to form a flawed protective layer against imposing empathetic eyes,

( _do you plan to put my severed head on it_ )

he came with a hot spurt on the strained scar tissue and invasive one palm on his sternum. Will followed shortly after with an animistic groan of his own, burying himself in the welcoming heat of the body underneath and trembling flesh under his hand. It took few seemingly elongated minutes for Chilton’s shivered bones to re-establish themselves as respectable pieces of his skeleton, for his frayed pleasure receptors to regain their fragile state of masked surrender, for his panic to dim out to a faint flickering alertness on the edges of his cognitive map.

( _what exactly has happened today, tonight, together)_

 


End file.
